


Not Worth the Paper They're Printed On

by Thassalia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Foursome, MCUKinkBingo, Multi, Oral Sex, Restraint, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 22:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16798372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thassalia/pseuds/Thassalia
Summary: “Dear Stark Penthouse,” he murmurs, unable to hide the way lust twists the quip into something hitching and breathy. “Let me tell you about the time I let a buxom redhead tie me to a post.”Care and hints of domination, love and restraint. Waiting is not the same as pining. Welcome home.





	Not Worth the Paper They're Printed On

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for my MCU Kink Bingo card for "Coming without being touched." It mostly fulfills that requirement. Thank you as always to my partner-in-crime [feldman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feldman/pseuds/feldman) for the encouragement and the opening line.

“Dear Stark Penthouse,” he murmurs, unable to hide the way lust twists the quip into something hitching and breathy. “Let me tell you about the time I let a buxom redhead tie me to a post.”

“Buxom? Really?” Pepper huffs into his ear, voice clear as a bell all the way from Beijing. “You’ve been raiding Howard’s secret stash again?”

“He was old school, Pep,” Tony says, speaking out of the corner of his mouth even though she can’t see him attempting an aside. “Man hoarded his skin rags under the guest room sink like everyone else.”

Used to be, a donkey’s age ago (pre-Merchant of Death, Man About Town days), just the smell of damp magazine stock could get him hard. Memories of his back pushed against the ornate bathroom vanity, legs spread, hand wrapped tight around a cock pulled half out of tight jeans, centerfold spread over his knees and luxurious cotton at the ready for clean up. Semen and lemon cleaner and ink still made him a little nostalgic.

It takes a little bit more these days to rev his engine -- age and maturity, heart surgery and some major life changes.

But, loosely bound to the post of his own boxing ring, the ropes tugging his elbows towards each other, pressing the big button of his waistcoat to his chest, feet bare against the mat, he’s as hard as he’s ever been.

“We’ll spar, then we’ll see,” Natasha had said, promise in her voice, but the day just hadn’t worked out like that and when he calls to apologize, knowing she’d needed this, that she doesn’t like her plans changed, she tells him they’re improvising and to meet them in the ring anyway.

It’s a decent choice, the ring, his own ring now since they all moved out. Private enough, not a bedroom but still with four corners to square off in.

His suit jacket is currently draped over the shoulders of the aforementioned buxom redhead, who is otherwise not wearing much else -- a slip of a black dress and tousled bed-head and the intense focus of the other person in the ring. 

That? She’s carrying with pride.

“Are you really all still dressed?” Pepper murmurs impatiently in his ear. The impatience is a little bit of a front. She knows it gets him going, but still, it’s been A DAY, and he can’t quite parse it down to play.

“You know, we could have arranged for video,” he says, petulant. Both of the earpieces offer Pep a type of surround sound, and she can open up a room feed on her laptop if she wants, but video is less...intimate than she wants. 

He’s louder than he means to be and Natasha’s gaze snaps to him.

“Now look what you made me do,” he murmurs to Pepper.

“Oooh,” she says, throaty laughter coating her words. “You’re in trouble now.” 

He hears a rustling, imagines the Egyptian cotton sheets under Pepper’s long bare thighs, the dip she’s making in the Beijing penthouse’s bed, and rolls his neck. 

Natasha stalks toward him, feet soundless against the mat. The dress may actually be a slip, he thinks, thick silk that does nothing to disguise the loose sway of her breasts, the round curve of her ass and belly. He doesn’t know how she does it. Naked, Natasha is stunning but her body is an instrument, honed and taut. It’s her grace, this feline sensuality that’s a con, an act, an illusion, making her seem so ripe and lush and delectable. A ripe peach. A honey pot. A goddess.

Oh god. He shouldn’t think of her this way. She’s a teammate. A compatriot. A friend. But he is, because he can. Because she’s allowing it, and Bruce is allowing it, and Pepper is absolutely begging him (ordering him) to do it. 

(She’s more than any of those things, to Pepper. To him. To Bruce. But this is a role that Nat needs to play, needs to see the way he fights his lust for her, the way that he only shows it because Pepper allows it. It soothes something in Nat, makes her feel...cared for.)

There’s a deliberate sway to her hips as she steps towards him. She leans down, creamy breasts so close to his face that he can smell her perfume, her face cream, her sex as she takes his chin between sharp nailed fingers.

“Quiet,” she says, caressing his cheek. Then she slaps him hard enough to make his ears ring. 

His cock throbs painfully against his fly as his head rocks back, as Bruce groans on the other side of the ring. Pepper gasps, says his name like a prayer.

“That’s your only warning,” Natasha says, “Until it’s time for you to talk.”

He nods, and in his ear, Pepper moans. 

“I love it when she does that,” she says, and it’s a joke and the truth and he has to bite off a laugh.

Nat cocks her head then, nods. “Only a little,” she says, as Pepper whispers in her ear, and Stark doesn’t need to hear Pepper’s words to know that she’s checking on him, on his state of being. On the blood on his lip. 

“And yes,” Nat continues. “He did like it. As much as always.”

She moves to the side to clear his view and caress his head and check his bindings, giving him an unobstructed view of Bruce sitting on his heels, hands deceptively still on his thighs.

His white shirt is good linen, skin a burnished warmth underneath. Bruce has only been back a few days. The tan hasn’t faded yet, nor has the wild look in his eyes. But he’s come home. To all of them. It’s a relief, always, when he returns. 

Tony can see that he, too, is straining against the fly of his pants, but Bruce doesn’t need to be restrained. Or rather, he doesn’t like it, and besides Nat likes to see his control. It thrills her.

It’s his penance, for his time away. Whatever they do in the privacy of her quarters, however they come back together, whatever secrets punishments and passions are between just them, Nat shares __this__ with Tony. And he shares it with Pepper.

Look, but don’t touch. Display, but don’t reveal. It’s not about getting off to Nat’s sharp slaps or decadent ass, the precise steps of her arched bare feet. To Bruce’s sultry, sulky mouth or thick hard cock, or the depth of his regret.

It’s getting off to the act of worship in front of him, narrated and enhanced by the desires of his own beloved.

Natasha trails her fingers along his shoulder, his collarbone, his cheek, darting little caresses that have him arching into her touch, her lips graze his ear, catching it between her teeth. Tony’s eyes roll back with the bright sharp pain, with the panting strain coming from Bruce, fingers flexing against his thighs until he bows his head and nods. 

Tony takes a deep breath, rubs his head against Natasha’s hip. She lets him for a moment and then stills his motion, her own hands curling as she listens to Pepper in her ear. She steps away, slipping off Tony’s suit jacket, trailing it behind her until she gets back to Bruce who tilts his head up at her.

Tony can’t see his own face when he looks at Pepper with awe, but he’s not sure she’d still love him if he looked at her like that. She’s too practical, too contained. She doesn’t want to bear the burden of being Tony’s savior. Or at least to see it so openly. 

The desire twisting Bruce’s features is unhealthy, it pulls at his mouth. It’s the kind of longing that burns cities, destroys lives. It’s fueled by rage and pain and loathing, it’s held in check until he’s given leave to let it out.

For her.

Natasha drapes the jacket over Bruce’s shoulders. Tony’d had a presentation, a working lunch, a product meeting, had gone down to his lab for a few hours to burn off some energy when he thought he’d missed their rendez-vous. The jacket smells like him -- good cologne, skin, sweat, motor oil and silk. And now it also surely smells like Natasha -- sweet and musky and delicious, enveloping Bruce with the transferred heat of her body and the mingling of their scents. Bruce’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, and Tony knows (from quiet discussions where they sit side by side in the near dark and talk in hushed voices) that this is the moment when Bruce really comes home. When he forgives himself the need to run and hide, when he can once again embrace his place in this world, allows himself to be wanted and needed.

Loved.

He tilts his head forward, pressing it against Natasha’s belly and she strokes his nape, fingernails sharp, tugging at his hair hard enough to make him wince but they both sink into the press of body against body.

The command she gives Bruce is too subtle for Tony to see or hear, and it doesn’t matter, it’s for the two of them.

Then, Bruce slides his hands up the back of her thighs, bringing her sex to his nose. Mouthing against the heavy black silk, kissing the swell of her hips, nuzzling the mound of her sex, breathing through the fabric, breathing her in, letting himself reach up to cup her breast, rub his thumb over the nipple, scrape against her collarbone, then draw his hand back down along her body before slipping under the edge of her dress.

She sways on her feet as he rucks up the fabric, exposing her ass to Tony who moans in his throat as Bruce pets her, slipping his fingers between the taut globes to stroke against her puckered whorl.

Tony came like a freight train once watching Bruce lick her asshole for 20 minutes, just imagining his tongue and lips and how it would feel, watching the fine tremors in Natasha’s legs and the tightness in her back--these delicate, irrefutable indicators of pleasure as Pepper raked her nails against his chest, narrating the scene with her cool firm voice while he leaned up against her, his bound hands against her belly. When Nat had finally reached back and grabbed Bruce’s hair, crying out in release, Tony ruined a truly great pair of silk boxers. Watching the ways Bruce could undo Natasha, the ways in which they undid each other, that killed him. 

Like now, as she’s melting under his touch. Adored. Cared for. Moving from theirs to cherish to his.

Tony moans in his throat, and Natasha says, low and guttural, “Speak,” like he’s a dog, like he can be commanded, and it’s fine, it is. It’s actually so, so good.

“God, Pepper,” he says, rolling his hips. “They’re so beautiful. I don’t even know…”

It’s not just the show he’s getting, the way Bruce hitches the slip up to expose her cunt, the way Nat wraps one powerful thigh over his shoulder, or the thrust of his fingers fingers into her slick, welcoming sex.

“Tell me,” Pepper says.

“I want you here,” he huffs to Pepper, straining. “I want you here to ride my cock while he fucks her with his mouth, while she digs her hands into his hair and pulls him into her pussy. I want to feel you squeeze around me as the noises they’re making get you off and you twist your hips and let me bite your tits since my hands are tied up.”

“Oh god, Tony,” she says. “More.”

“Christ, Pep, baby, the noises. Can you hear them?” Natasha’s gasps, the filthy, astonishing sounds of wet, luscious flesh, of Bruce’s decadent mouth against the pink, perfect dripping center of her, the throaty need as he whimpers and moans.

Nat makes a hitching, hiccuping flutter of near helplessness before she comes like this. Tony imagines her making that noise as Bruce thrusts into her, as she surrounds him completely and it hurts now, the tightness of his testicles, the throb of his dick against his zipper, aching in $2000 custom trousers.

It’s beautiful. Nearly as beautiful as Pepper’s murmur as she describes the weight of her breast in her hand, how heavy it is, how hard the nipple. The strap of Natasha’s dress has slid down her arm, and her own left breast spills out, bouncing as she fucks Bruce’s face.

Tony would do anything to touch his cock right now, channels it instead into coaxing Pepper into fucking herself on her fingers. “She’s so close, Pep. So pink and wet. And Bruce is so hard he’s shaking, won’t even touch himself, just opens her more, sliding all over her clit, holding her up. Oh, fuck me. Oh Pepper.”

Bruce rises up on his knees, and Nat’s thigh hitches further up, her flexibility and strength keeping her upright as pushes a thumb against her clit. He moves away from her, just a fraction wrapping his hand around her thigh, adjusting her stance and she uses the pause to cup his face, ducking down to kiss him, wet and sloppy and desperate.

It’s more intimacy than she normally lets Stark see, but Bruce had been gone a long time and the mood shifts suddenly as Bruce kisses her back. 

He hooks his arm around her thigh and pulls her down onto his face as he sinks down onto his heels and then his back.

It’s a little unwieldy, less artfully graceful than most of what they let Tony see, but it’s so desperate as he pulls her down onto his face to let her writhe against him. She braces one hand on the ground by Bruce’s head, the other rubbing tight hard circles on her clit, hips bucking.

He talks Pepper through it best as he can since Nat has clearly lost her words, tells her how Bruce’s hips grind against the ground, how roughly he’s pulling her to him. How fucking much Tony wants to touch them.

And then Natasha tucks in her head and sighs out, hard and high, keening as she comes, unfettered, exposed, shuddering and shaking against Bruce as pink spreads down her arms and across her chest.

“Tony,” Pepper says, her own desperation evident, high and tight in her throat. “Talk. Now.”

What can he say though? “She came all over his face,” he gasps, “She’s hot and pink and I want to suck those beautiful tits, lick up all that juice on her cunt, on Bruce’s face.”

Pepper is keening now, hips twisting against the sheets and he knows how beautifully flushed she’d be as she opens her throat, tilting her head back, holding her cunt lips open and finally working herself.

“Please come, baby,” he says, begging and begging and when she gasps, Tony jerks up with the ripples that run through him, hot and zinging, a mockery of orgasm but so good nonetheless. He needs more, but it’s okay.

He looks at the others, but they’re caught up. It’s not a performance any more, or at least in that moment. Nat swings a shaking leg over to kneel by Bruce on the mat. Her face is wet, tears and sweat.

She untucks Bruce’s shirt, strokes his belly and he catches her hand, brings it to his mouth. They look at each other and then she nods and they look at Tony. Nat touches her ear so he’ll know she’s talking to Pepper.

“Can I touch him?” she asks, and then smiles, slow and sweeter than Tony thought was possible. 

She rolls gracefully to her feet, and when she gets back to Tony she kneels beside him.

“Should I untie you?”

“Pep?”

He hears her breathy sigh, the shift against the sheets. “No,” she says.

When Tony turns his head, Bruce is there next to him on the other side. He puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder and then leans in and brushes his thumb over Tony’s bottom lip. Tony nips at him, and Bruce smiles, that tired, gorgeous, wounded smile.

He reaches out and Natasha grasps his other hand, holding it so tightly that her knuckles whiten.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says. “I’m so sorry.”

Tony likes to strain against something, to be held in check, likes something to fight against when the emotions get too big. His eyes well up, seeing Bruce so exposed and he’s undeniably grateful to be tied right now, to keep from throwing his arms around Bruce’s shoulders and pulling his rumpled head down to rest in his neck.

“Missed you,” he says instead, and hears the little sighing shudder of Pepper holding back her own tears.

Natasha leans across Tony, fingertips balancing on his thigh, and kisses Bruce. It’s a quiet kiss. Full of something for just the two of them, and yet somehow, her touch keeps Tony in the circle. 

She steers Bruce’s hand, still clasped in hers, to the hem of her dress again and nods. He moves his hand away from Tony’s face and draws Natasha’s dress over her head leaving her bare, heavy breasts pink-tipped and swaying as she puts a hand on Tony’s chest and swings her leg over to straddle them.

He can feel her wet heat through the fabric of his pants and he squirms, wriggling against her.

“He’s still hard,” she says softly, both to Pepper and to Bruce, maybe even to Tony.

Pepper likes to see and hear, to taste and touch that restraint. Bruce likes to make his penance public. Natasha thrives on the act of absolution.

This moment holds something for all of them.

It’s different than the times they come together in bed, combinations of penetration and worship, sexual acrobatics and sensual connection. Of Nat seeking a confidante in Pepper, connection with Tony, a holding place for her heart (for all of their hearts, really) while Bruce is gone. The voyeurism meets a different need than the way Nat sighs against Pepper’s mouth, or Tony flicks his tongue over the tip of Bruce’s cock, the ways in which Nat rises and falls slowly, fucking Bruce and rocking her clit against the vibrator Pepper holds to her as Tony eats her out. Those are moments of bodies, of lust and want and the physical expressions of people bound by so much weight and obligation that occasionally a bed of debauchery is the only place to shed that weight.

This is different.

(“I’m not pining,” she’d said, that very first time as Pepper’s clever fingers brought a pretty pink flush to her chest, as she rested her head in Tony’s lap. “He goes away, and I want him to come back. I’m waiting. But I won’t pine.”

“We’d never let you, darling,” Pepper said. “Now come for me.” She twisted her wrist and wrung the first of many succulent, grateful orgasms from Natasha.)

Bruce sheds his pants and underwear. He hasn’t come yet and his thick, heavy cock bobs against his thigh. He cups Natasha’s skull and she turns, takes his cock and rubs her face against it like a cat, licking the tip, then loosening her jaw and letting him slide his thickness into her wet mouth. She sucks, slurps and encircles the base, taking him a truly impressive depth down her throat as he shivers and bucks a little. She takes him like it’s a gift, like something she’d wanted, denied herself, finally allowed herself to have. There’s hope, and forgiveness in the way he fucks her throat, in the way she’s greedy for it.

Tony whimpers, can’t even find words for Pepper, hopes she has some sense of what’s happening from the vibrations in Nat’s earpiece, in the noises Tony and Bruce are both making, the whisper of Natasha’s name on Bruce’s lips. The way she slips him out of her mouth with a filthy sound that curls Tony’s balls up even further.

Bruce bends to kiss her, brushing the saliva off her chin and then turns, pressing his mouth against Tony’s. Tony tilts his chin, eager for the kiss, for the salty sweetness of Natasha’s cum on his face, of Bruce’s own muskiness.

Bruce nuzzles against Tony’s neck for a moment, and then whispers against his ear. “I’m going to fuck her now,” he says.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Pepper whispers, and then Natasha rises up on her knees, breasts pressed against Tony, so warm and sweet as Bruce slides in behind her and grasps his cock, angles Nat’s hips back and together they work her open until she sinks down onto him with this awestruck look of completion that has Tony murmuring a litany of “please please please.”

She tilts her head back against Bruce’s neck and he palms a breast, squeezing harder, pinching the nipple in a way Nat clearly loves, ecstasy pulling at her mouth while Bruce works his other hand between her legs.

Nat rises and sinks, thighs flexing, tilting so that it’s clear Bruce is hitting her g-spot as she sets the pace and tempo.

Tony can hear the low murmur of “love you, fuck me, so good, mine” the kind of senseless nonsense that suddenly feels so intensely tender that he’s choking with it, and then Nat changes the pace, leans into Tony so that he can hear her murmurs of “more and mine and fucking me so well.” Bruce releases her breast, finger marks bright white bands, and clutches her hip, slamming into her faster and faster as she cups her cunt along with him. Her cries, Peppers moans, the wet slap of flesh finally breaks Tony free and he cries out, coming in his pants as Natasha reaches behind him, slipping the knot of his bindings free.

Bruce fucks into her, and Tony wraps his arms around them both sobbing his own desperate nonsense, Nat’s clit rubbing against his softening erection, clasping them tightly as Bruce shouts his release, as she comes again in their arms.

They stay that way for a long time, until Pepper’s own soothing murmurs break through, and Bruce disappears, comes back to wraps his arms and the suit coat around Nat who is shivering a little with the cold and adrenaline, burrowing against Tony’s chest.

“Can we…” Tony swallows hard. “Can we go upstairs, make use of my big shower, maybe go to bed? Video conference Pepper?”

Natasha nods as Bruce brushes kisses against her neck and cheek, as he tries to press his remorse and love into her skin, as he holds onto Tony’s shoulder, as he says Pepper’s name in keening gratitude for holding his heart’s desire safe.


End file.
